Markus Anecdotes-Shelves and Culture: A Journey Through Dutch Supermarkets

Written with Photos by Markus

Every week, without fail, I step into one of the many supermarkets that dot the Dutch landscape. Whether it’s the ever-present Albert Heijn, the budget-friendly Lidl, the no-frills Aldi, or the locally-loved Jumbo, a trip to the supermarket in the Netherlands is never just about groceries. It’s a window into Dutch culture, values, habits, and even humor. Living in the Netherlands, I’ve come to realize that the Dutch supermarket experience is both deeply efficient and quietly quirky.

At first glance, a Dutch supermarket may not seem dramatically different from those in other parts of Europe. The automatic sliding doors, tiled floors, and aisles stacked with everyday necessities all feel familiar. But spend just a little time observing—or better yet, shopping—and the subtle uniqueness begins to reveal itself.

Let’s begin with the carts. Most Dutch supermarkets require a 50-cent or 1-euro coin deposit to unlock a shopping cart. It’s a small amount, but a clever system. It encourages people to return their carts instead of leaving them in the parking lot. And it works. In all my years of shopping here, I’ve rarely seen a rogue cart rolling through the wind.

Then there’s the way Dutch people approach grocery shopping. It’s usually with military-like efficiency. The Dutch don’t tend to browse—they come with a list, a mission, and a strong sense of what’s on offer. Sales are announced in bright, bold letters: “BONUS” at Albert Heijn or “ACTIE” at Jumbo. These signs are so iconic that they’ve practically entered the cultural lexicon. I once overheard a child squeal with joy to their parent: “Mama, kijk! BONUS op chocopasta!” (Mom, look! A deal on chocolate spread!).

Speaking of chocolate spread, let’s pause for a moment to appreciate one of the quintessentially Dutch breakfast staples: hagelslag. These tiny chocolate sprinkles, poured generously over buttered bread, are a source of national pride. There are whole supermarket shelves devoted to different types: milk, dark, white, extra pure, even rainbow-colored for children. Where other countries might use sprinkles to decorate cakes, the Dutch put them on their morning toast.

Another distinctly Dutch feature is the sheer variety of dairy products. The Dutch are proud dairy consumers, and it shows. Yogurt (yoghurt), buttermilk (karnemelk), vla (a custard-like dessert), and kwark (something between yogurt and soft cheese) dominate entire aisles. I remember the first time I stood in front of the yogurt section—completely overwhelmed by the range of textures, flavors, and fat percentages. One brand even offered “drinkyoghurt” in a 1-liter carton, which felt both excessive and perfectly practical.

Machine where to return “statiegeld” bottles and cans

Dutch supermarkets also prioritize sustainability. Many stores no longer offer free plastic bags. Instead, shoppers bring their own reusable bags or purchase one at the checkout. There's a strong emphasis on recycling: you return empty plastic bottles and beer crates through the “statiegeld” system and receive a small deposit back. Children often collect bottles to fund school projects or sports clubs—teaching the values of recycling and saving from an early age.

Produce is mostly sold loose, and customers are expected to weigh and tag their own items using automated scales. This was new to me, and I still feel a twinge of panic when I forget to weigh my apples. Unlike some countries where a clerk scans the produce at the register, here you’re expected to participate more actively in the process.

The checkout process itself is uniquely Dutch. There’s a kind of unspoken competition to bag your groceries as fast as possible. Cashiers, seated in ergonomic chairs, scan items at lightning speed, seemingly without effort or expression. You need to be quick—get your bags open, start packing, keep up! There’s often no bagger to help you. It’s a solo race against the beep of the scanner. I’ve learned to pack strategically: heavy items first, cold items together, and always—always—have your reusable bag ready before your groceries start piling up.

And then there’s the charm of the “bonuskaart” and loyalty systems. But it’s not just about saving money—it taps into a distinctly Dutch trait: the joy of spotting a good deal. In the Netherlands, people aren’t necessarily hunting for the lowest prices, but rather for the offers. The question isn't "Where is it cheapest?" but "Where is it on offer today?" This discount-driven culture means many shoppers will visit multiple supermarkets in one week, or even in one day, to capitalize on the best deals.

Entire family routines are built around the weekly flyers—meticulously comparing “bonusaanbiedingen” from Albert Heijn to “acties” from Jumbo. The Dutch are thrifty, but not in a miserly way—it’s almost a sport, a source of pride, to have scored that two-for-one offer on stroopwafels or half-price gouda.

Even people who can afford full price will often say, with a satisfied grin, “I got it on korting.” Albert Heijn offers a personal savings card that gives you discounts on selected items. Jumbo has its own spaarzegels (savings stamps) program that can be exchanged for discounts, cookbooks, or even luxury kitchenware. While not unique to the Netherlands, the extent to which these systems are used—and relied upon—is certainly notable.

Cultural differences also show up in what’s stocked. Peanut butter, or “pindakaas,” is a Dutch staple and tastes different from its American counterpart—less sweet, a bit saltier, and often smoother. Drop (Dutch licorice) deserves its own museum. You’ll find an entire shelf devoted to it, from sweet to salty, from soft to so-hard-it’s-like-chewing-rubber. Foreigners often recoil at the taste, but locals are fiercely loyal.

Then there's the cheese. Oh, the cheese! Entire counters are devoted to it. Gouda, Edam, Leerdammer, and aged varieties of all sorts. You can buy it in pre-sliced packets, but many people opt for freshly cut wedges from the cheese counter. They’re wrapped in parchment and handed over like precious goods. Sampling is encouraged, and many a Dutch grandparent still insists that “young cheese” isn’t real cheese at all.

Don’t be surprised to see pre-packed stamppot (mashed potatoes mixed with kale or carrots), raw herring in sealed packs, or even frikandel and kroketten ready to heat and eat. Dutch supermarkets reflect their culture’s culinary pragmatism. Food is for nourishment and enjoyment, but also efficiency. The “verspakket” (fresh meal kit) section is a testament to this—ingredients for common Dutch dishes like erwtensoep (pea soup) or nasi goreng, all pre-packaged and portioned with a simple recipe included.

Holidays are a special treat. Around Sinterklaas in early December, the aisles overflow with kruidnoten (tiny spiced cookies), chocolate letters, marzipan figures, and pepernoten. At Easter, shelves are taken over by pastel-colored eggs and paasbrood. In late summer and fall, speculaas and autumn-themed snacks emerge. Even supermarket music and decor shift subtly to match the season. Supermarket culture in the Netherlands isn’t just about food—it’s about rhythm and tradition.

And of course, no discussion of Dutch supermarkets is complete without mentioning the self-checkout lanes. These self-service stations are more than just a convenience—they are a quiet testament to the deep-rooted trust that Dutch society places in its people. Supermarkets like Albert Heijn and Jumbo assume that customers will scan and pay honestly, without constant oversight.

While random checks do occur, they are infrequent, and generally handled with discretion. This system relies on a shared societal value: integrity in small, everyday actions. In many ways, the self-checkout reflects the broader culture of the Netherlands—low-hierarchy, self-reliant, and built on mutual trust.

But they also test your honesty and patience. Dutch society runs on a high degree of trust, and that trust extends to supermarket self-scanning. The expectation is that you scan and pay honestly. Random checks occur, but generally, people comply. It says a lot about societal values when a major supermarket chain trusts its customers with minimal supervision.

One day, I found myself at the self-checkout behind an elderly lady who had clearly never used it before. She stared at the screen, perplexed, then poked it with her cane. A young man behind her gently stepped in to help, showing her how to scan each item and where to tap her bank card. It was a brief, beautiful moment of generational connection—and a reminder that even in a system designed for efficiency, there’s room for patience and kindness.

Then there's the peculiar Dutch practice of not walking in the middle of the aisle. People generally stick to one side, park their carts neatly, and avoid obstructing others. It's subtle, but it reflects broader Dutch social norms: be efficient, don’t make a fuss, and be considerate of others’ time and space.

Finally, let’s not forget the bakery and flower sections. Fresh bread is a highlight of any Dutch supermarket trip. Many stores have in-house bakeries that offer crusty rolls, multigrain loaves, and indulgent treats like appelflappen and roombroodjes. And near the entrance or exit, there’s usually a flower display. Rows of affordable tulips, roses, or seasonal bouquets—another nod to Dutch heritage and the cultural importance of flowers.

From the coin-operated carts to the lightning-speed checkout, from hagelslag-covered toast to aisles of drop and cheese, Dutch supermarkets are more than just places to buy food. They are reflections of national identity: practical, efficient, modest, and full of quiet delights. For an outsider, they offer endless fascination. For a local, they are simply part of daily life.

Over time, I’ve come to enjoy these weekly rituals. I now know which Albert Heijn stocks the best fresh pasta, which Jumbo has the shortest lines, and which Lidl always runs out of avocados. I’ve learned how to pronounce “aanbieding” correctly and how to decode the nutritional labels in Dutch. I even know to avoid shopping right after 5 p.m.—that’s when the entire neighborhood seems to descend upon the store.

In recent years, the supermarket landscape in the Netherlands has also embraced online shopping. Services like AH.nl and Picnic allow customers to order their groceries with just a few taps. Picnic, in particular, is popular for its app-based system and electric delivery carts that zip quietly through neighborhoods. The Dutch efficiency shines through even in digital form: deliveries are usually right on time, substitutions are minimal, and the process feels seamless.

There’s also a quiet revolution happening in the organic and specialty food space where big sections are replaced by the same products but then the are produced in a sustainable way.

Regional differences also bring charm. In smaller villages, Coop and Plus supermarkets are more common, and their selection often caters to local tastes. In Friesland, you might find more sugar bread and local dairy; in Limburg, vlaai (fruit tart) is never in short supply. Each store reflects its community.

Perhaps the most Dutch moment I’ve experienced in a supermarket was when someone accidentally bumped into my cart and we both immediately said, “Sorry.” It was a mutual, automatic reflex—no eye-rolls, no frustration, just a shared understanding. In that simple exchange, I saw what makes Dutch society tick: politeness, practicality, and a collective desire to keep things smooth and calm.

In the end, navigating a Dutch supermarket has become its own kind of cultural fluency. A quiet skill, developed slowly, aisle by aisle. And with every trip, I discover a little more about what makes life in the Netherlands unique—one hagelslag, one cheese wedge, one “bonus” offer at a time.